


Waterhorse

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-27
Updated: 2005-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There should be a monster in here,” Billy says suddenly. “It’s a beautiful land, here, but an empty one, sometimes. At home, there’d be a hundred stories just about this valley, but I don’t think, before Pete and the others found it, that even a hundred people had come through here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waterhorse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibliotech](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bibliotech).



“It’s beautiful, really beautiful, out here,” Dom says, and then immediately wants to smack himself over the head for making such a bloody obvious statement, and for furthermore sounding like he should be wearing a pair of frilly knickers and matching hair ribbons. _You have a cock, Monaghan_ , he reminds himself, _regardless of how you’d like to push your best friend flat on his back in the grass, and…_

The river is a dark noisy rush before them, as it flows over slabs of the teal-grey shales scattered all over the island, at their feet. At least, Dom knows the colour of the rock and of the honey-coloured tall clumps of grass fringing it, but the moonlight has bleached out all colour from them, so the clear water is black and sinister against spiky grey. It’s beautiful, still; the Rangitata River winding its lazy way across the plains, encircled by a fierce bristling guard of mountains, an impenetrable ring hacked bare of grass to the dark bedrock as they climbed higher. Above them, the Edoras set is quiet and dark on its hilltop.

Saying it’s beautiful is one of the most redundant things Dom’s ever said, although certainly not the stupidest thing ever to pass his lips in Billy’s company. Billy brings out the stupid in him, he decides, and debates whether to share this insight.

“It is, that,” Billy agrees quietly.

They’re having a moment, maybe, Dom thinks, of peaceful commune with one another and nature under a clear night sky - and yet he can’t, can’t help the yawn that forces his jaws apart, tips his head back and closes his eyes; he flexes his shoulder blades with a slight creak, and emits an odd strained yawning-noise.

Billy’s laughing softly, the lines bracketing his mouth deepening - his sweetly-shaped, fucking gorgeous mouth that Dom has all sorts of idle daydreams about, and some neither idle nor particularly reserved for the daytime.

Dom kicks a few rounded pebbles idly into the river, dissatisfied at the mellow _plops_ they sound.

“There should be a monster in here,” Billy says suddenly. “It’s a beautiful land, here, but an empty one, sometimes. At home, there’d be a hundred stories just about this valley, but I don’t think, before Pete and the others found it, that even a hundred people had come through here.” He snorts in wry amusement. “Plenty of fuckin’ cows, though. Throw one more piece of dry cow shit at me between takes, Monaghan, and I’ll fucking brain you.”

Billy’s eyes gleam clear and pale in the moonlight, and Dom wraps his fingers safely around his upper arms. It’s a practical move, too; it gets fucking freezing in the South. He misses surfing in the sunny North Island, with Lij, and Orli, and Astin when he shut up.

“I don’t know, mate; I’ve heard Lawrence mention taniwha, some sort of Maori monster that seems to hold up road building.” He shoots another look at Billy, who’s frowning slightly. “The lake-monster bit, that’s you being Scottish, I bet. ‘Wee, sleekrit, cowerin’ beastie,’ and all that.”

Billy groans. “Dom. Don’t try to talk in a Scottish accent again, _please_. You murder it. You stab badly-accented knives into its very heart. And then you turn to poor old Burns! The beastie, Dom,” he draws himself to his full height, trying to stare down his nose at Dom, who’s staring boredly into the water, “ ’S a mouse. A wee mouse. For shame, Dominic.”

Dom yawns again, on purpose this time. “Well, this river could be haunted by a mouse-monster. You never know.” He flashes a crooked grin back at Billy. “Gone mad from lack of an adequate cheese supply, lurking in wait for stray cows and foolish travellers.”

Billy makes that high, giggling sound again - not that he’ll ever admit it’s a giggle - and Dom smiles in quiet triumph.

“You may be right, at that,” Billy muses. “There’re no selkies here. No mice, either - really, Dom.”

Dom watches as Billy scans the grass around him, then sinks down, moving until he’s lying on his back, the thick tawny tussock grass framing his body. “Come lie down, Dommie. No cow shite on the ground, I promise.”

Dom does so, lying beside Billy in the tall tussocks, the river flowing before them. Their breath comes out in white steam against the blue-black of the sky. If Dom turned his head, his nose would graze against Billy’ cheek. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed on the heavens, his body separated from Billy’s by unspannable inches.

“The sky’s different, too,” Billy whispers, and it sounds like he’s speaking straight into Dom’s ear. Dom remains perfectly still. “The constellations, I mean. No Dippers, or anything. No Dog Star.”

Dom has always thought that moonlight suits Billy; the thin light gently hazes his face of lines, and his eyes shine palely beautiful.

“I was asking one of the stunt people about that, actually,” Billy continues, and he still sounds extremely close. “About the constellations. He could only mention a couple - the Southern Cross, and something he called the baked-beans pot. Not exactly Orion’s Belt, is it?” He sighs, and Dom can _feel_ Billy’s breath warm against his ear, his jaw. He wants to turn his head, badly, but the muscles of his neck seem to have locked in fearful stasis.

“It’s so far from home,” Billy says. “It’s almost a different world entirely, out here. The rules don’t apply, you know?” He sounds dreamy, a little breathless.

“They don’t?” Dom asks, eyebrows rasing. “What’re you planning, Billy, and does it involve plastic explosives? Small furry animals? Something to fix the Cuntebago up right and proper?”

“Noo-oooo,” Billy answers, drawing the word out like wire. “Just - just this.”

And suddenly Billy reaches his hand out, cradling Dom’s jaw, and gently turns Dom’s head until they’re eye-to-eye - _well, nose-to-nose,_ Dom thinks, inanely. _Is_ he thinking?

Billy’s looking at him earnestly, and moves forward, just a little, and his _lips,_ Billy’s _lips_ brush Dom’s.

Dom can’t breathe properly, and some utterly stupid part of his brain cackles _it's mouth-to-mouth, now, actually_ , and Dom decides that it can bloody shut up.

Because his brain tells him that it doesn’t make sense for Billy to be kissing him - and that’s his tongue now, isn’t it, sliding along the part of Dom’s lips? - but then, the stars are different and the land is empty and _the rules don’t apply_ , do they, so logic can fuck itself.

That settled, Dom relaxes, but Billy’s already pulling back, frowning, and Dom blinks at him in surprise.

“Bills?” he asks, and his voice sounds hoarse in his own ears.

“I - I’m sorry,” Billy mutters. “Just forget that, aye?”

Dom gapes at him, watching as Billy sits up, drawing away, and then the part of his brain that he’d tried to shut down comes to his rescue.

 _You were supposed to **kiss back** , _it informs him. _Not gape like a startled halibut_.

“Billy,” Dom breathes, again, ‘Back here. Now.”

Billy’s punctiliously straight shoulders and spine seem to sag, and Dom scrambles over to him, cupping the sides of his face in his hands.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?”


End file.
